


empires burning

by alongwinter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 13:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongwinter/pseuds/alongwinter
Summary: The reign of Hydra and it’s Nazi experiments was a secret long forgotten in the battlefields during WWII. The organization’s parched throat could only be stated by the blood of those under their ruling thumb. As time passes and the war is just another story, Hydra demands to be the ruling party once more.James Barnes, a lone amnesiac soldier, is the stern and bloodied fist of said organization. A man stripped of a title that once held pride and dignity, he is immortalized in one world as a hero, as he commits treason in the next. However, he refuses to go down without a fight, even if he doesn’t know what he’s fighting for.Forced to state his impending disobedience, leaders decide to buy his silence and tap into his more primal instincts. Hydra leaders find you, lost in the trials of your own trauma and therefore, beautiful and vulnerable. In turn, you follow a man who smells of deceit and lies, only to find nothing is as it seems. (Soulmate!AU)





	empires burning

Your mother smiled as small feet pattered towards her quickly, the sound of a child’s laughter echoing around the small house. Clutched in your small palms was a blanket, worn and stained from years of rough play and vacations to the backyard. Evidence of the small sand pit was found in its crevices, and consequently, the rest of the house as well. You let out a sound of discomfort as you ran into her leg, your arms wrapping around her calves and clutching as if you were going to climb her. She leaned down; hands under your arms as she lifted you into the air, spinning both of you in circles before landing softly on her hip.

“Where’s the fire, sugar?” She asked softly, her finger coming up to tap your nose.

Your face scrunched, eyes crossing as you watched her finger with rapt attention, “Tell me a story, mama.”

Humming, she tapped her chin theatrically, “And what’s the magic word?”

“Please,” you drug out, lips pouting before you laughed, bright and carefree in the ways only a child could be.

“Well,” She sighed, looking toward the unfolded laundry, “I suppose it’s all-right.”

You cheered, wiggling within her arms as she set you down carefully. Running toward the couch, you nearly missed it in your excitement before settling atop the cushions like you had a million times before. You methodically placed the blanket in your lap, covering your body from your shoulders to your toes, wiggling to find a comfortable position. Turning this way and that, you huffed in frustration before sitting up, punching the cushion behind you with your tiny fist as if that would change anything before starting the process over once more. Once you found your place, you turned to her, watching her stare at you with a smile on her lips.

She took the seat right by your feet, “What would you like to hear today, lil’ darlin’?”

Your lips pursed, “I think I wanna hear about the trees again today. Oh! Can you tell me about the big oak again, please mama?”

“Well,” She said, “I suppose that’ll do. How ‘bout we talk about you first? If you can remember e’rrything I told you yesterday, I’ll tell you ‘bout that ol’ oak tree. We gotta deal?”

She reached her hand out, watching as your small one took hers as well, “Deal!”

“What was the color of your shirt?”

“It was pink!”

“Correct!” She reached out to give you a high five, listing more colors she saw yesterday, letting you guess and pick. You were always right, whether you were actually correct or not. She couldn’t handle the look on your face, that glossy eyed pout you took when you guessed a color wrong. She’d learned that early on in this little guessing game, knew it hurt your young heart that her and your father could see colors, while you could not. It was just the way things worked out. Soulmates were rare, and treasured, and the concept of it was hard to grasp for children as young as you.

As you grew, the blanket kept its wear and tear, tucked away in a box in one of the closets, no longer covered in new grime or littered in sand from the pit. You still sat on the couch, using the throw blanket to cover yourself now, instead. The stories never ceased, no matter how many times she told the same one. Your mother fed into your guilty pleasure more than ever, knowing now that you understood the world a little bit better. Now, though, instead of thirsting for colors and more information, you yearned for a soulmate and an experience of your own.

She tried to put the feelings into words you could understand, the sudden rush of pigment filling the irises of the person and spreading outwards until it touched every corner of the world. She knew, though, that she fell short every time. Her tales weren’t descriptive enough, weren’t heartfelt enough, and on and on in a series of disappointing phrases and monologues. You knew it too, watched as her mouth turned down in the corners in frustration, her anger spilling out only slightly over the ability she lacked. There were books, literature dating back millennia describing the exact experience, but she told you none of them did it justice. None of them could really make you feel like you had seen it, lived it for yourself, until you had actually been in their shoes.

The love in her eyes, however, was enough for you. The way she would light up when your father entered a room, or when the story of the night would involve him, anything that had to do with him was enough proof for your teenaged heart that love was real and it was triumphant. Excitement and anticipation would fill your small and growing bones, lighting up your heart with a flicker of something indescribable.

Until you met your person, though, it was like a constant life in shades of grey, the hues making everything around you murky and disinteresting. It was exhausting, especially as you aged, the longing to see something other than just the same shades. Between the tales you were fed nightly as a child and the excitement of finding your own adventure, you were nearly vibrating in your skin each time you walked out of your home. You were keen on direct eye contact, waiting until you saw the colors fail to change before looking away. Some thought you were odd, sure, most tend to just let things fall as they may, but you were inpatient and anticipated the colors. You were always disappointed when you returned.

The life your parents gave you was enough, the tales temporarily filling the gaps left behind until you were on the cusp of eighteen. It was a mistake, bad timing, and an awful event you wouldn’t soon forget. Running late for dinner, you jogged down the sidewalk quickly, desperate to get back home after a study group ran late at the library three blocks over. You knew your mother would be worried to the point of being ill, anxiously gripping your father’s hand as they awaited your arrival. Tripping on the crack on the porch, you ran into the door before fumbling for the handle. You grasped it tightly in your hand, the metal cool in your palm as you turned it, its surface warming at your contact. Apologies fell from your lips, your words like water sliding off your mother’s back as she sat at the table, head in her hands.

The house was tense as you trailed off, your presence taking up too much space in the otherwise void that was once your home. Something felt off, like the foundation was off center and flipped, your hands reaching out to steady yourself in the metaphorical tilt. You frowned to yourself, looking around the room in confusion, as something was missing, the dread weighting heavily on your shoulders telling you it was a piece that would never be returned. Like breaking the surface of water to come up for air, she sat there, your mother, head in her hands still as her quiet sobs traveled to you all at once. She hadn’t noticed your entrance.

“Mama?” You asked softly, whispering as if afraid to break the silence, “Is everything alright?”

She cried harder, the balls of her hands digging into her eye sockets. One came down to grasp at her chest, as if her heart was physically in pain, the movement causing you to go into a slight panic. The thought of a heart attack, taking your hero and best friend away from you was the only thought on your mind as you moved closer to her, placing your hand on her shoulder. Her body twisted, angling her face away from you. Crouching down, your hands rested on her knees gently as she whispered to herself, the words mumbled, so quiet you couldn’t make them out.

“What’s going on?” You asked, desperation seeping into your voice.

“He’s gone,” She whispered back, voice cracking, “He’s dead.”

You gasped, tears gathering in your eyes. It was a mistake, a bad accident. This couldn’t be real. You looked around the house, trying to find validation and stability in something that couldn’t offer it to you. A sudden wave of blame fell upon your shoulders, unwarranted in its assault. You were always too ambitious for a child, too adventurous for a juvenile. Maybe, you considered, if you were less instead of more, your father wouldn’t have felt the need to work harder to please you, to give you the things you wanted versus the things you needed. It was disorienting, this wave of unbalance that settled on you like it always belonged there. Alone, in all ways but one, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall before gathering your strength.

Reaching out to grasp her wrists tightly, you pleaded to her, “Mama, look at me.”

She shook her head defiantly, the overwhelming grief on her shoulders turning her demeanor innocent, almost childish in the way she twisted from you like the roles were reversed, trying to escape your grasp. Exhaustion was evident, however, as you finally got her stilled and pried her hands away, the skin underneath slightly raw and red from the pressures of her hands. Her eyes were wide as she watched you, a broken noise coming from her throat as she began to scream.

Her hands twisted and tugged in your grasp, finally breaking free. Immediately, they returned to her face, her nails scratching at the lids of her eyes and the skin around them as if they betrayed her, personally. The shrieks and sobs became louder and louder, fingers digging further until they drew blood, long scratches covering the top portion of her face. As you tried to subdue her, one of her hands stretched towards you, scratching down the side of your face in defense. Your strength was decent for a girl your size, but against her pure anguish and white-hot fury, you were useless. Nothing stopped her, nothing calmed her, her voice nearly sending you into exhaustion as she screamed, “I can’t see the colors,” repeatedly like her own mantra. Your blood ran cold, the fight fleeing your bones as you slumped against the couch.

Nothing, from that moment forward, was the same. It never would be again.

From that day forward, your mother, who was once vivacious and full of life, was silent and dreary. She had checked out the moment she collapsed on the floor, knowing herself before the police ever came knocking what had happened. Nearly comatose in her position, you tried to imagine yourself in her spot, having everything one second and losing it in the next. You couldn’t fathom the pain. In reality, she was here with you, but truly, she was always somewhere else. It was as if she ceased to exist in this world, floating somewhere between here and the next plane.

The stories stopped coming, and you stopped asking. Her actions were brief and fleeting, interactions with you even more so. She had always said you looked like him, and the guilt of that now was eating you alive. If it weren’t for the task of taking care of her, you would have gone and stayed away a long time ago. Your curiosity about the adventures and secrets life held vanished as well, the longing for your own soulmate tampered down and buried so deep inside of you it was practically gone. Refusing eye contact with others, you were now known as rude instead of weird to the public eye. It rolled off your back, as did other whispers they tried to hide. They just didn’t understand.

Sure, you wanted love and completion like everyone else, but watching your mother drift away into a shell of the strong woman she used to be made you question the true existence of soulmates in the first place. You contemplated on nights the nightmares down the hall weren’t verbal, or requiring your assistance to wake her. Maybe they existed to remind everyone, possibly from a higher being, that human life was nothing in comparison to the big picture, or to exist for mockery purposes. God, or gods, saying yes, these people can love each other in the purest and deepest forms known to humankind, but watch the helplessness in their eyes as we take them away. Nights carried on like this, months upon months, questioning the process and purity of it all. It was cruel.

Human life, truly, was fleeting and short.

Uninterested in everything, the responsibility fell to your shoulders. Your mother lacked strength, and the eyesight, to continue to work in the field she had chosen, her resignation forced shortly after your father’s death. The events caused you to quit school, in turn getting two jobs since your mother was unable to gather the motivation. There was no way around it, no possible way to balance taking care of her, work, and going to classes. If you didn’t, there would be no way to pay bills and slowly get rid of the copious amounts of debt left after the funeral and the life insurance policy.

Waiting tables at the local dinner was not what you had planned to do with your life. Flashing fake smiles to paying customers and busting your own ass for better tips was never the ending you dreamed of having, nor was the bar you tended for on nightshifts out on the edge of town. You mixed drinks for hours for drunken men with itching palms and superiority complexes, their grotesquery topped with disgusting hygiene. There, you forced down bile as you flirted your way to better tips, blinking your lashes heavily at anyone that looked well off enough to spot you a twenty for the night. It was barely enough to pay rent, let alone utilities, but you made do. There was no other option.

The night he came in was already leaning towards a bad day for you. At the diner, you had tripped on a toddler’s toy lying carelessly in the spaces between tables, tripping on it as you were delivering someone’s food. The items ended up in a separate customer’s lap, toy broken, and another patron left hungry. The incident resulted in a dime tip and a nasty little note on the receipt, which your boss had seen, despite apologies from you and compensation towards a new shirt. The owner of the bar was not pleased when you showed up late because of the previous accidents, adding an extra twenty minutes to your already tardy clock-in due to his monotone lecture and wandering eyes.

Nevertheless, when he walked in, you knew something was about to change.

You hadn’t noticed him come in, his presence quiet and uneventful. He had sauntered up to the bar, taking the seat right in front of you as he looked at the liquor on the shelves. The glass in your hand was forgotten about, as was the rag you used to clean it. Your mouth opened slightly as you gaped, silently, wondering to yourself where this man came from. Most men around here were disgusting slobs, like pigs in a barn unkempt. They were off-putting, their flannels too small and their hair obviously lacking a shower or two, camouflage hats tilted at odd angles as if it was attractive, yelling obscenities in their twangy accents. You never looked at them twice, if you could help it.

This man, however, was clean.

His hair was neatly shaved and recently washed, his black suit pristine and expensive in a way you hadn’t seen outside of magazines and old movies, nearly tactical in the way it clung to him nicely, almost attractive in its presentation. You could tell he was someone important, lost, probably, in this town of nobodies and failures. His gaze, you noticed, followed the shelf as if he had a preference, head turning to the left and showing his clean profile to you. He looked like no one you had ever seen before. Just glancing at the side of his face made you anxious, a sense of something, good, maybe bad, settling in your abdomen heavily like a promise. You cleared your throat subtly, blinking to regain your composure and professionalism.

“How can I help you?” You asked, making yourself busy and visibly uninterested as you turned back to the glass in your hand.

He hummed, “I will have vodka, no ice. EFFEN if you have it, UV if you do not.”

Accent foreign, you struggled shortly to understand his words. You tried to place his dialect, possibly Russian, or Austrian, before nodding dumbly to yourself and him. You were dangerously curious about him, in ways you weren’t and didn’t allow yourself to be around others. Normally, you just served and moved on, but that wouldn’t be the case here, you could tell. You busied yourself again with his drink, sliding it across the wooden top as you finished. It wasn’t complicated like your mind made it out to be, it was simplistic and mediocre. You didn’t want to walk away from this, however, choosing instead to stick around a moment longer, ignoring the other patrons eyeing you oddly. Trying to figure out what to say, he beat you to the act.

“You are staring, what is it you want to know?” He took a sip from the glass, staring at the tabletop intently as it clanked back down. Never looking up, he made you wonder how, exactly, he noticed your eyes.

“You’re not from ‘round here,” You said dumbly, cursing yourself as your words slurred slightly in surprise.

He chuckled lightly, “That is true, but you know this.” Looking at you then, he eyed you up and down before picking up the liquor once again, finishing it off at once. Your reflexes kicked in, picking up the bottle again to fill it before he could signal for more.

“What brings you here? Not that your business isn’t wanted,” you babbled, “I was just curious because you sound European, yet this obviously ain’t Europe.”

“I am a long way from home, but that is the beauty of traveling. My home is Sokovia, but I live in Russia.”

“You didn’t answer my first question.”

“All in good time, my dear,” he smiled, “What is your name?”

You told him, waiting for the returned pleasantries to no avail as he sat there watching you with a curious look on his face. Sighing, you prompted him with the same question, causing him to blink as if he’d been startled, out of fright or deep thought, you didn’t know. He laughed, almost uneasy, motioning to his empty glass. Your reflexes took hold once more as he answered, “Call me Karpov.”

The conversation continued like this for what felt like hours, the man holding your attention in a vice grip. You both went back and forth with questions, learning about each other to the bare minimum that a bar environment allowed. Every few minutes, you ventured off to refill other glasses, unconcerned with the lingering glances and lack of tips tonight. It was strange, how attached you felt, how much your heart told you this was supposed to be happening. Your gut, however, said something different. It was urging you to run, turn the other way and never look back. However, that tingle of anxiety running down your spine told you to believe this was part of the plan laid out for you so long ago. Yet, when you looked into his eyes, you saw no color. The irises on Karpov never changed from the dull and monotone greys. You didn’t know if you were disappointed, or relieved.

Your spine stiffened from its relaxed hunch as he said, “I must not waste any more time. I have a proposal for you, if you will listen.”

“I don’t do that kind of thing, sir. Maybe you should look somewhere else.”

A real smile touched his face, his head shaking, “No, no. That is not what I meant to imply. I cannot lie, I have been watching you for a while. You are blanketed in tragedy, and I want to assist.”

You made a noise of confusion, “How?”

With that, he laid out his plan. He knew of your smarts, too large of an intelligence for too small of a town, and he required your help on a project back home. Planning to leave someone with your mother as a homecare worker, you would follow him to his home country, halfway around the world. It was nothing deceiving or entrapping, he said, it was just a favor for a job at his company. He needed someone to help the homeless population in the main city, who were overpopulated by mental health patients with no source or networks for help. He despised therapists as caretakers, stating they were too uptight and not as caring as they should be. They had no people skills, focusing instead on ‘fixing’ them instead of the person themselves. Needing someone like you, a person with experience with that kind of thing, he had sought you and others out, looking for a chance. He was gentle with his proposal, almost speaking to you as if you were a small and scared animal as he tried to convince you further.

“I-I don’t know, Karpov. This is insane, I mean, I can’t just drop my entire life to follow you on some adventure around the world.” Your hands shook as you grasped your hair in frustration. “As a humanitarian, no less? No one would believe it was happening, for once. I don’t even know you. T-this is, t-this is crazy.”

This, you thought, was ridiculous. Not only had you met this person an hour or two ago, but the problems with your mother and the lack of money in the house was urging you to actually consider his offer. You bit your lip in frustration, staring at the grains in the wood as if they held all the answers for you, begging them to tell you their wisdom. Your gut, which had been against this from the start, reared its ugly head in protest once more as your heart felt light and wise, urging you to go with him, to follow him until you no longer could. It was confusing, and made your head spin to think about.

He noticed your contemplation, “What if I gave your mother money? If I left her a considerable amount, and paid her bills forward until I should do it again. Would that convince you?”

His eyes pleaded with you subtly to join him, expression bordering on faux concern and unblinking at the absurd amount of money. Thinking about it for a moment longer, you nodded your ascent. He smiled, a real one again, offering up plans of how this was going to work. Sliding in your input here and there, it wasn’t long before planes were booked and bags were packed, your life emptied into containers and whisked into his waiting car as if they meant nothing.

Your mother lay motionless as always as you pressed a kiss to her forehead, typical roles reversed once more as you tried to offer her comfort, tried to explain your impending absence in a way the catatonic woman would understand. She barely stirred at the announcement, unable to nod blankly at the floor. The woman Karpov would be leaving here, a beautiful red head, nodded once at you, smiling softly at your hesitation. You bit your lip again, turning away from her for the last time in a long while, scared of not knowing when you would see her again. Smiling shakily at Karpov, he motioned you outside and away.

The car ride, and furthermore, the plane ride, were quiet and uneventful. The scenery passing by the windows was like nothing you had ever seen before, not that you had seen much. It was eerie, watching plains switch to wooded forestry as if it was nothing, like it was no trouble at all. Inspiring, almost, the way one thing became another so quickly and with such elegant ease. Karpov’s head was buried in manila folders, stacked midway high atop the seats, your ‘hero’ too busy with his work and life to entertain you, not that you were complaining. The battle between your mind and your heart was still going strong, hours into the flight, and the emotional toll that took on you led straight to exhaustion, your body passing out halfway to Sokovia.

When you awoke once more, it was to a dark interior and the stomp of heavy boots on metal, your gut twisting anxiously at the sound. Your mind hissed at you in anger and betrayal as men in armor and strapped with thigh holsters pulled you up and out of your seat before you were fully awake, their movements rough and demanding. They flung you about without care, your head hitting seats and overhead compartments as if you were a pinball, doomed to a life inside a machine. Karpov’s words were false promises to a broken human being, the metaphorical glue used to stitch you back together enough for his use, only to watch you fall apart in mockery later. Anger simmered inside you as you knew you should have listened to your gut, thought about this logically before selling your soul to the devil himself.

But then again, if you had said no, would he have listened?

The frigid winter air was harsh on your skin as they carried you from the plane, almost like a useless rag doll, and whisked into a dark warehouse. The building was large and surrounded by an aura of doom. Karpov stood at the entrance, you noticed, hands behind his back in privilege as his men carried you off to Neverland. The inordinate stench of cleaning supplies and a prominent burning of harsher chemicals hit you straight on, overwhelming your senses as the men led you down the hall. You tried, desperately, to count your turns, to remember the way out, but to no avail. There were so many, almost like a delicate spiral into the belly of the beast. Panicked at the thought of being lost, you searched for Karpov, desperate for some familiarity. He was nowhere to be found.

The smallest of the men, who was still larger than you were on your best days, stepped in front of your body, your feet finally planted on the floor. He pulled a key ring from his pocket, the vast amount of them nearly filling the entirety of it, before plucking a particular one and letting the rest fall to hang and clank together. Unlocking the door to the room swiftly, the men pushed you in before strapping you to a cool metal chair, the scent of rust and iron making your nose itch. You willed yourself not to panic as the door swung open once again, revealing Karpov and a man in a lab coat, someone you presumed to be a doctor.

“I see you have settled in nicely, dove.” Karpov looked around the room, eyeing a metal table against the wall before stepping toward it slowly, moving it closer to the chair. He was methodical, the screech of its legs on the floor spiking your heartbeat further.

“What is this?” You panted, “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“Of course not, I’m not that cruel.” He smiled hollowly at you, “But I would be careful, the doctor can be a little rough.”

The man in the lab coat stepped forward, the guard’s hands coming down to grasp your biceps and hold you tightly to the chair. Your legs shot out immediately, kicking at anyone who came forward until the men grasps your calves and pressed them back, a button clicking before metal cuffs the entire length of your shin held you down. There was no escaping as the same occurred to your forearms. You were locked down as the doctor grabbed your jaw harshly, shoving his fingers between the back of your teeth and prying them apart so he could shove a block between the upper and lower parts of your jaw, mouth open and panting. Squirming as much as you could in your confines, you breathed heavily around the intrusion in your mouth.

“You’re going to be good for him, you know.” Karpov stepped forward again, touching your face softly as nails scratched roughly against your cheekbones before he pulled away. Desperate to ask him what he was implying, your grunts went ignored as he turned on his heel, stalking out of the room with purpose and misplaced dignity. You screamed, the sound echoing off the walls around you before your mouth was taped shut, the block still between your jaws. It bounced, jarring your teeth as one of the guard’s hands came down, slapping you harshly in the face.

The first week, the doctor recommended electroshock therapy, an apparent favorite of theirs as you were placed in a different chair; much like the one you had already been assigned. This one, however, had faceplates that came down, wrapping its way from your temple to your forehead and from your temple to the back of your skull. They buzzed you repeatedly, drool falling from you chin as the doctor laughed heartily. Your nerves tingled in dread as they rewired and rerouted themselves within you, begging you to make it stop. You had no control, your body moving on its own in random spurts, twitches of left over electricity causing your limbs to spasm uncontrollably.

The veins at your temples were swollen and tender, a dark and purple bruised ring wrapped around your head and disappeared into your hairline, the shape a striking reminder of the one thing you feared the most. It was difficult to speak, not that you were allowed to do so, however. Your tongue was heavy and numb in your mouth as your eyes floated around the room, glimpses of your surroundings flashing like a memory belonging to someone else. Each time, they shut the machine off, your eyes automatically floating to the man above you. The smirk would fall from his face as you glared harshly at him.

“Have you had enough, pet?” He asked, mockery on his lips.

“Fuh. You,” you slurred, your head lolled back to the ceiling as the guards all scowled. The doctors palm would come up, striking down on your face, adding more color to your skin as the machine was placed back on your temples. Your screams echoed before dying out, hoarse cries replacing them once your voice finally gave out.

The second week, they resorted back to the beatings, their hands on your flesh making your skin crawl and bile rise to your throat. The helplessness you felt, the idea of being a damsel in distress made you angry, made you burn. You started being more noncompliant, the result being more beatings. You taunted them, wanting to stay alive but wanting your defiance to be known, to be envied by anyone else they had locked in here, hearing your screams through the walls. You wouldn’t go down so easily.

They relished in your subtle commands, bathed themselves bloody as the slaps and the fits rained down like hellfire again. Acid traveled throughout your body for hours, burning your insides as it ignited something dangerous inside you, something long forgotten and buried. The angry feeling pooled in the pit of your stomach, begging to be unleashed unto the world. Your body actively fought against it, closing it off as one would oxygen to a fire.

The third week, things started to blur as they connected electrodes to your spine, opting to use it instead of your temples. They feared ‘he’ would not want you with the scars, as if this mysterious man’s needs were their top priority, as if you lived to service. You questioned them with screams, wondering whom, exactly, was the person they spoke of. It was torturous, knowing you were, most likely, being auctioned off for some deviant’s sexual desires. Human trafficking wasn’t a secret, wasn’t unheard of. Your town was small, and people never spoke openly about things in a town like yours but your mother was always progressive in her teachings, informative about the ways of the world when she was a part of it.

The fourth week blended with the fifth and the sixth until nothing remained but a large jumbled mess of screams and searing pain. You reluctantly gave up fighting after a while, dreading your natural compliancy but ecstatic at the absence of pain. It was like a reprieve from the constant torture, although they still were actively doing it. The quietness and somber expression you gave washed the harshness from their fingers, as if you would give in so easily.

Maybe, you decided, others had.

With that thought, they came into your cell, unhooking the cuffs and dragging you into a standing position. Slipping a large t-shirt down your trembling and malnourished body, you gasped at the light breeze against your skin, goosebumps rising as it traveled down. They hastily fumbled with you until your legs were in the pants they also brought, as if the idea of clothing was thoughtful and should be appreciated. The guard to your left hauled you behind him once he was satisfied, his tight grip on your arm already throbbing and most likely, bruising. You couldn’t bring yourself to look.

You whimpered, stumbling to keep up with his quick steps and unnatural pace as he led you into a room, office-like in its set up. Its furniture was layered in grim and dust, manila folders stacked high atop the mess. The room felt as chaotic as your heart. Footsteps pounded the concrete outside the door, causing you to slump in obedience. Your face tilted down and to the side like a wolf submitting to the alpha, your blood boiling as you straightened the line of your body. They would not gain you so easily. The creak and slam of the door was almost unnoticeable in your anger.

“Ah, my dove,” Karpov said, smiling softly as if you were old friends. “I’m glad to see your training has kicked in. It’s important to know who’s boss around here.” He was goading you into a fight, you knew, but he wouldn’t win anything here. It seemed he was aware as well, as his lip quirked in discontent, “Your work here is crucial, I hope you are aware. You are the queen in our game of chess, darling, you must do what you are told to maintain our deal, and your life.”

“And what am I being told to do?” you croaked, coughing lightly as your throat tickled in disuse.

“You will belong to the Asset, who belongs to us. You will be the key to his obedience, his service here. Anything he asks of you, you will do. It is quite simple.”

“I told you before. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

He smiled hollowly at your reply, “But you will, if you wish for your mother to live.”

Your eyes narrowed, “What did you just say?”

Karpov chuckled, “I left your mother with one of my most trusted agents. She is prepared to do whatever necessary, if I should make a phone call.”

“You son of a bitch,” you whispered around coughs, wishing you were strong enough to leap across the table and attack him. You hand lifted as if to do something, anything, you weren’t sure, but your bruised and aching body screamed in protest. He watched, eyebrow quirked as if he knew exactly what you were going to do. It was amusing to him, you guessed, to see someone so weak and forcibly pliant. You knew just one punch would feel better, feel vindicated, but you also knew it wasn’t possible. Huffing in agitation, you grunted for him to continue.

“The Asset will be waiting for you tomorrow, so you shall be showered and bathed before then and dressed to his liking. My men will take care of it,” he said, reaching under his desk and pressing a button. The guards came in not long after, lifting you from the chair and onto unsteady legs once more. They dragged you behind them like useless trash, uncaring of the state of your body. You expected nothing less.

“Oh,” Karpov spoke, the guards pausing at the door and turning you to face him, “One more thing. You will be good to him. He is a prize long fought for, and I will not let you ruin this for us.”

You looked at him, watching his face before asking, “Who is he?”

Karpov smiled, the look malicious, as the light cast dark and ominous shadows across his face, “Now, my dove, that would be telling.”


End file.
